


i am a beggar always

by Black_Betty



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Happy Ending, Language of Flowers, M/M, Pining, Requited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/pseuds/Black_Betty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are flowers and rainstorms and broken hearts and happy endings :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am a beggar always

**Author's Note:**

> For this lovely prompt on the kink meme~
> 
> Erik and Shaw are both trying to woo Charles,but where Shaw is a rich bastard and buys him expensive gifts and takes him to fancy restaurants, Erik is poor as fuck and barely has enough money to pay his rent and eat enough that he doesn't die of malnourishment but he still spends his last dollar on a single rose only to have Shaw show up with the biggest fucking flower he has ever seen.
> 
> So he gives up, because why would Charles who is use to expensive things ever be with him.
> 
> And then Charles proves him wrong.
> 
> (So, I think this is officially cross-posted everywhere, but I kind of love this little fic, and I eventually want to gather everything I've written for the fandom in the same place, so...sorry if you've seen this before! Title stolen from e.e. cummings)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What is he even doing here?   
  
He feels completely ridiculous, standing on the dark, cold curb, his fingers clutched around a drooping bunch of flowers, wilted and drowning in the pouring rain.   
  
Just down the block, a mere ten feet away, Charles stands in the open door of his brownstone, the light from his hallway pouring out into the street, illuminating him like the sun. Charles, beautiful even in worn, striped cotton pants and a sweater that is too big, hanging down over his hand where it is resting on the doorframe. Charles, who’s smile is visible even from a distance, trancendent, cutting to the heart of him even as it hardens and grows cold.  
  
The light also allows Erik to see Sebastian Shaw standing on the stoop outside of Charles’ door, a massive black umbrella protecting him from the rain that is slowly soaking through Erik’s threadbare jacket. There is a coy, satisfied smile on his face as he rakes his eyes down Charles’ body leaning casually against the doorframe, as they talk, their voices a murmur that doesn't quite reach him where he stands in the shadows.   
  
It looks like Sebastian has the same idea as Erik, though the execution differs somewhat. Of course Shaw, with his drivers and assistants, his fancy cars and clothes and fucking umbrellas and his millions of dollars, of course Shaw would have brought Charles the largest and most elaborate bouquet of flowers known to man. Something bright and beautiful and worthy of Charles, who was brighter than any person either he or Shaw had ever encountered.  
  
He looks down at his own flowers, not a bouquet perfectly placed and wrapped in gold paper and tied with a red silk ribbon, but a collection of scraggly, bruised blossoms, ripped from the wet earth of Raven’s garden, under her watchful eye as she directed him to take another, and smiled at him and wished him luck.  
  
He thinks about heading back to Raven now, about letting her see his failure after all the nights she listened to him ramble about Charles, about how smart he was, and how kind, and how he had talked to Erik like an equal, like Erik wasn’t just someone who fixed cars for a living, like Erik was interesting and worthwhile. How Raven had been the first, and only person he had told when he thought he might be in love with the silly Professor who brought his inherited classic cars in for Erik to fix, who talked with his hands and sat in greasy oil patches accidently, and handed Erik the wrong tools when he asked for them.   
  
Charles who had met Sebastian Shaw when he came in to investigate the property Erik’s auto shop sat on, the property Shaw owned. The property he intended to evict Erik from, despite the fact that it had belonged to Erik’s family ever since his great-grandfather had immigrated to America from Germany years and years ago and built it from nothing.  
  
But Charles doesn't know that.  
  
Charles only knows that Sebastian is handsome and charming, Sebastian is the kind of man Charles sees as an equal, a man of means, and who can offer Charles the kind of life-style he is accustomed to.  
  
Erik looks down at the flowers in his hand, and feels silly, and ashamed. Forget-me-nots. A simple plea—look at me. Don’t forget me. Stupid of him to ask even that. To expect to be more than another servant for Shaw to step on, for Charles to use. Stupid of him to think he could offer Charles more then dirty hands and flowers with broken stems and bruised petals.   
  
Heartbroken, and disgusted, he throws them to the ground and turns, and walks away.  
  
***  
  
Later that night, after he walks for hours in the rain, after he dodges Raven in the hallway of their run down walkup, her face concerned, her words placating, after he’s dried off and then drowned himself again, this time in half a bottle of scotch, someone knocks on the door.  
  
Erik ignores the sound, and tilts his head back against the couch, listens to the woman wailing through the scratches on his record player (“I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall”), but the knocking is relentless, and finally he stumbles to his feet.  
  
“Raven, I told you, I’m tired—“ he opens the door expecting to see Raven, her expression pinched and exasperated, but instead is startled to see Charles.  
  
Charles.  
  
Charles who is soaking wet and trembling from the cold, his lips purple, water droplets dripping from the waves of his hair, from his eyelashes. Charles who offers him a smile despite the discomfort, though it’s tinged with more hesitance then he’s ever seen in him, usually so brash, so confident.   
  
Charles, who is holding in one shaking hand a crumpled bouquet of forget-me-nots.  
  
“Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but…did you intend for me to have these?”   
  
His voice is rough, and low and trembling with some unnamable emotion. Erik doesn’t know what to say, can only gape at him, his mind churning slow like molasses. Finally, he nods.  
  
Charles smiles then, and it explodes like sunlight through the dreary, derelict hallway outside Erik’s door.  
  
“In that case, I came to say thank you, and—and do this--“ And before he can think, or prepare himself, Charles is pushing the door open, and launching himself into Erik’s arms, his body shivering, but pliant, his mouth warm and wet and gorgeous, his kiss determined and delicious and all-consuming. Erik can only hold on tight, wind his fingers into Charles’ hair, and under the back of his sweater, press him close and think, “yes.”

And hope that maybe he can keep this for a while.

(For always).  
  
  
  
  
  
  
And even later, as they coil their bodies together under the covers, Charles’ fingers, still clammy and cold, pressing into the hollows of Erik’s ribs, Charles murmurs against his chest, sleepy and sated,  
  
“How could I ever forget you?”   
  
Erik looks at the floor, at the flowers scattered amongst their hastily discarded clothes.

He tucks Charles closer to his body, and smiles. 


End file.
